Jim Siergey: Etiquette
Now, I’m no stickler for proper manners and pinkies-up etiquette but is it too much to expect a wee bit of common sense and basic courtesy from the inhabitants of this modern world?
I fear that it is. I can’t even add “you know who you are” because I’m sure that these people don’t.
I recently went to the movies. I don’t usually go to the cinema to see new releases. I mostly go to see old movies—classics, noir, silent films—so the audiences I’m used to are made up of “film buffs”. They know how to act in a public theater.
This time I went and saw a new release…with the unwashed masses.
The theater was already very dark when the wife and I entered so I grabbed the first two seats that I could discern were empty.
There were two people in the row in front of us but I could see over the head of the woman in front of me and her companion was sitting two seats over so there was no blockage for either one of us.
But, before I deal any further with them, allow me to touch upon a horrible habit that has been inflicted upon the modern movie-going audience.
Commercials! An onslaught of commercials is presented on the big screen, one after another, on and on. The same stuff one can see on their own TV.
It’s no surprise that people then act as if they’re at home.
I wish Ann Landers were around to teach folks how to behave….
This may affect me more so than some because I despise commercials. I never watch them. I automatically change the channel when they come on my TV.
Can’t do it at the movies.
It’s a nightmare.
No wonder the nation has turned its lonely eyes to Netflix.
Anyway, after about fifteen minutes, the commercial attacks and the coming attractions finally ended and the main feature began.
After sitting serenely through all the pre-show garbage, the woman in front of me suddenly began to constantly move. She’d lean forward and lean backwards, move to one side and the other—like someone exhibiting slow motion Tourettes Syndrome.
Boy, I thought I was a fidgeter. Next to this dame, I’m comatose.
She didn’t block my view but she was a bit annoying.
All it took was a couple of harrumphs and she sat still.
Now, for the guy two seats away from her.
I assume he was two seats away because he was a very large fellow. He sat, as if in his La-Z-Boy at home, with his hands clasped behind his head with elbows prominently splayed.
A lady with a large hat from the Victorian era couldn’t have taken up as much space as he.
When he wasn’t seated in this relaxing manner, he leaned forward, resting his arms on the seat in front of him.
You got to admit — this commercial was pretty good….
Now, anyone who has ever attended a performance, in live theater or a movie theater, knows, or should know, that you never, ever lean forward in your seat to view the action upon the stage or screen.
I’m nitpicking, I know, but just like seeing litter in the forest, it affects my inner enjoyment, which is rather tiny to begin with.
I was able to view and enjoy the movie but my peripheral vision was peeved.
As the movie was reaching its conclusion, people began coming into the theater for the next showing. Did they take care in not disrupting the audience already seated?
Not a chance. They loudly discussed where they should sit and how hard it was to see as if they were the only ones in the universe.
That which used to be called ‘rudeness’ is one of the societal problems in this modern world. Everyone is so wrapped up in their cocoons of cell phones, texting, iPods and iPads, laptops and Blackberries that everyone thinks that they are the only ones in the universe.
We’re becoming a nation of Techno-Narcissists.
People, all I’m asking for is a little acknowledgement of your fellow man. We may be all alone in this brave new world but we’re all alone with one another.
Y’know, the brotherhood of man and all that.
As we exited the theater, I stopped in the men’s room. Another man entered in front of me.
As we walked in, there were three empty urinals. This…this… chowderhead took the middle one!
Come on! You don’t take the middle urinal when there are three empty ones. What guy doesn’t know that?
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CV Cee: Funky Tales — Part II
So I’m in the car with Mom and her home-care worker, Patricia, searching for a Popeye s that sells Garlic Pepper Wicked Chicken.
We’re searching ‘cause the first Popeyes we visited hadn’t gotten around to thawing out their newest promotional dish.
“We don’t have none,” the order-taker says. ” We won’t have none today ‘cause it’s frozen.”
Kinda makes all that advertising moot, ya think?
Mom’s gotta go to the bathroom. “Can you hold it ‘til we get to Popeyes, or should I find a McDonald’s?”
You know, if you ever get caught out and have to use the bathroom, McDonald’s has the cleanest ones.
Mom says go ahead, she can hold it. I head to the Popeyes about a mile up the road.
To entertain/distract her and Patricia, I recount the story of my recent visit to MC and the fart experience.
“No girl, you think that’s bad, let me tell you what my son did to me,” Patricia says. “This happened a while ago. There was a beauty supply store near my house that I liked to go to. I went there a lot.
Man, that smelled!
“Anyway, one day I was in there looking at some earrings. My son—he had to be about 20 at the time—walked past, saw me though the window and came in. ‘Hey, Ma’, he says, ‘what’cha doing?’
“`Hello, son,’ I say. And then he passes gas.”
“No!”
“Yes, he did,” Patricia continues. “The smell was so bad, it was like someone had died — you could barely breathe. It was so bad, the owner came from behind the counter.”
“’Ohhh, stink, stink bad’,” the lady said. Then my son looks at me and says ‘Oooooh, ma, you passed gas!’
“NO, HE DID N’T!!!” Mom and I are incredulous. He blamed his Mama for funking up the store! What an asshole! We’re howling.
“That’s not the worst part. The owner put me out of the store! She said ‘you, stink, get out! Leave now!’’
“She put you out! Oh my god!” we’re screaming now. Had we been stationary we’d have been rolling on the floor laughing our asses off. Put. Out. The. Store. Oh my god!
The kid pulled an Eddie Haskell — acted all innocent….
“Welcome to Popeyes. May I take your order, please?”
“She put you out?! That’s a riot!” Turning to Mom I ask “You okay? Sure you don’t have to go?”
“I’m fine,” she says, “but y’all making it very hard.”
“Gimme a small Wicked Chicken, a two-piece mild, dark meat, with Red Beans and Rice, and a Sprite…”
“That will be $11.87. Please drive up.”
We make our way ‘round the building towards the pickup window. Mom is enjoying the exchange between Patricia and me all the more because she can’t see.
“I have never been so embarrassed in my life!” Patricia says between hoots. “This is a store I went to all the time. Can you imagine? I could never show my face in there again. I could’ve KILLED my son!”
“So what was he doing while the lady was putting you out?”
“Laughing like a fool. He thought it was funny.”
“I’d have—excuse me, Ma—I’d have Beat. His. Ass. How old was he?”
“At least 20. Old enough to know better.”
“What did you do?”
“What could I do? I left. And I never went back to that store.”
“I guess not. That is so wrong! Damn, that’s wrong! But men do that shit. I don’t understand it. They just fart anywhere, anytime and act like nothing is wrong. Like they don’t have no home training. They can be such pigs. And the owner… uh uh uh. Put you out. That is wild.”
“I could not believe he did that to me. We still laugh about that, even now, and that was years ago.”
“A small Wicked Chicken, a two-piece mild, dark meat with Red Beans and Rice, and a Sprite. $11.87.”
I fish my wallet out, pay for our food and hand the bag back to Pat to check. Everything we ordered is in the bag.
It’s enough to make you want to lay off the fried food altogether. Well, maybe after this order…
Editor’s Note: CV‘s last post for The Third City was Funky Tales — Part I.
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CV Cee: Funky Tales — Part I
Some stores you just don’t visit after 5 p.m. These are the stores where lines snake from front to back, customers balefully eyeing the two frazzled and frowning cashiers whose fingers can’t keep up with the steady flow of customers. MC is one of those stores.
So, being quite the aficionado of timing my shopping, I saunter into MC one morning feeling good that I’d picked a time when customers were outnumbered by sales staff 15:1.
Approaching the queue, I’m even more elated to see that I’m second in line. As any regular visitor to MC will attest, being second in line at that joint is tantamount to being given a parking receipt with an hour left on it.
As I enter the queue my nostrils are assaulted. I find myself walking through a funk cloud so odoriferous my eyes water.
“Damn! Someone needs to lay off the fried foods,” I think.
Thankfully, a few hasty steps and I’m on the other side.
The requisite two cashiers are busy: the one closest to the line is obviously going to be tied up for a while—her customer keeps going into his wallet, pulling out cards and handing them to her.
Cashier number two takes the guy in front of me. She looks to be done pretty quickly: he has only two items on the counter. When you’re in the queue, these details assume enormous importance as they provide clues to how long a wait you have.
This is good. I’ll be outta there in minutes…
What was that odor?
I look away, momentarily distracted by the impulse purchase gadgets displayed along the length of the queue.
“Kiss me, I’m a Geek” tee shirts and miniature USB powered flashlight and screwdriver combos catch my attention.
I turn back and discover to my dismay that my cashier, and her customer, are gone.
A minute passes, then three. Two more customers join the queue, then another. More minutes pass. Before I know it, the queue is filled with people all wondering the same thing: what happened to the second cashier?
I’m started to feel gypped—just my luck, my great queue position advantage eroded by an MIA cashier. Shit.
Suddenly, she reappears. A quick word to the security guard, and she’s back on duty. I take my five-dollar telephone cord to the cashier station, which smells cloyingly like Glade Fresh Bouquet.
“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” she says, my minor irritation instantly mollified. “I had to get some spray. I couldn’t let my customers go through that.”
The sales lady had to explain what was going on….
Turns out the “that” to which Madame cashier referred was the source of the funk cloud I’d experienced earlier.
“I don’t believe it,” she says, swiping my merchandise. “He passed gas THREE TIMES and never said ‘excuse me’. Just acted like nothing happened! I’m right by the door—you think, after the first one, that he couldn’t have stepped out into the hallway, something!”
“HA!!!” I howled, so loud the security guard’s head whipped around to see what was happening. “That is AWFUL!” I say through the laughter racking my body. “You think he’d of said ‘I’m sorry, or something!”
Tears well in my eyes, I’m laughing so hard.
I finish my transaction, commiserate a bit more, and leave.
I reflect on the indignities—big and small—that cashiers must deal with daily. I’m grateful that my work doesn’t require me to grin and bear it when someone farts repeatedly in my face.
And I am really, really glad that I had to wait in the queue longer than I’d anticipated—that kind of funk is enough to make you—at least temporarily—insane.
Editor’s Note: This is CV Cee’s first post for The Third City. Welcome aboard, CV!
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Jim Siergey: Modern Day Magellan
There’s this guy I know named George.
He’s one of those multi-talented creative folks–cartoonist, animator, painter, sculptor, musician. He rides a bike and probably builds his own furniture and flies a sky-writer too, spewing a white cloudy frame over a sunset and signing his name.
I wouldn’t be surprised.
Recently, George had a big exhibit of his work displayed at The Belmont, a fancy place located on the corner of Belmont and Sheridan. In fact, George called the upcoming evening a “fancy-pants” opening.
I try my best to be a supporter of the arts and the folks who create art, so I got my pair of “fancy-pants” out of hibernation, and had them dry-cleaned, laundered and tailored. My wife did the same and with the both of us clad in our fancy…well, they’re actually black Levis…we set out to The Belmont.
Stating that parking is hard to find in that area is like informing the public that snow is cold. I drove around for nearly half an hour trying to find some sort of parking space that I could squeeze into. There was not a spare inch to be found.
I decided to head for the lakefront, just a block or two away, to see if I could park there.
The real Magellan — only in The Third City….
It was turning into a hazy, foggy evening and I wasn’t sure if the ramp to my right was the one to take (it was) so I turned left instead and found myself on Lake Shore Drive, heading north.
Unperturbed, I exited on Recreational Drive and planned to double back toward Belmont on the park road.
Being right next to the lake, it began to get a little foggier. It had also been years since I had been on this particular stretch of park road so the ride was starting to feel a bit adventurous.
The Drive led me to a gate denying entry to the Waveland Golf Course parking lot. This blocked me from driving any further but to my right and down a bit of an incline, I saw what looked like another road. I turned around and searched for a way to enter that suspected thoroughfare.
Despite the thickening mist, I was able to espy an opening. I entered an area filled with trucks and cranes, stacks of pallets and girders and other large items of rust. The road, however, did continue on southward so, so did I.
What happened that night was surreal….
The gray of the pavement intermingling with the gray of the fog caused me to motor tortoise-like through the monochromatic darkness. It was so still and empty, I felt like I was in a different land.
Steady and unsurely, I ultimately reached the point where the road went no further.
It ended in a large parking lot-looking area except there were signs stating that cars parked here would be towed away. The place was void of cars and it seemed unlikely that a tow truck would meander along but I also didn’t know quite where I was.
I had no choice but to retrace my steps, er, wheel rotation. Back through the misty silence we traveled until we found ourselves once again in the area of trucks and cranes. But we could find no exit onto Recreational Drive.
I could see the Drive but could see no way to get there.
I backed up, I drove forward, I rode in circles, I drove in between and around the various stacks of objects—an outlet could not be discovered.
It was eerie. Were we in Brigadoon? The fog, the quiet, the absence of any other person or traffic, the sound of bagpipes softly playing in the distance over the moors, made it seem so.
Eventually, as my gas tank needle headed toward the big ol’ E, I found the outlet, barely discernible between a large dump truck and a towering pile of pallets. I broke on through to the other side and headed back northward to the Irving Park exit.
Despite not being a college graduate, I felt that I had given attending George’s opening the old college try. Since my wife and I were out and about and clad in our fancy pants, we decided to ditch the art show idea and dine in one of Chicago’s many fine eateries instead.
As for George, I’m sure he will have another art exhibit and I will attend that one…as long as it’s held in a mini-mall with plenty of parking.
Editor’s Note: Jim‘s last post for The Third City was Etelvina Turns Ninety….
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Grabowski: Lost at Sea
Author’s note: Believe it or not, I started writing this before the recent cruise ship crash.
My mother grabbed my face and pulled it towards her. She took a swift whiff of my breath and yelled, “Jeffrey, have you been drinking??!! Have you been smoking pot??!!”
It was 3:00 AM and we were on a cruise ship somewhere in the middle of the Caribbean. I was twelve-years-old.
She had right reason to suspect I was strung out on something, after my erratic behavior over the previous few hours.
“No, mom, no…honestly!” I replied.
The last time she and my dad and my brother had seen me was around midnight. That evening had started out pretty normal. We ate dinner at six, and then probably played some shuffleboard or swam in the pool or sat in the hot tub.
This was back in the `80s when cruise ships were so primitive that they were more like a 2.5 star hotel with a pool, rather than the floating complexes of today with movie theaters, surfing wave pools, casinos, piano bars and mountain climbing walls.
As a kid I used to love eating food, lots of it, and I’m surprised and I am lucky that I didn’t turn out morbidly obese.
So later that night around 11:45 as my family went to bed, it made perfect sense when I went out on my own to check out the midnight buffet. I was so excited about that midnight buffet.
Every growing boy needs to get that fourth full meal in right before going to bed.
Pizza! Pizza! Pizza! I scarfed down plate after plate. Then some dessert.
The captain and his first mate were very concerned….
After gorging myself, I initially tried to find my way back to our room, but I got lost, and I couldn’t remember our room number! I headed down some hallway and began randomly opening doors. In one room there was a lady lying in bed asleep.
“Mom, is that you?”I whispered.
“No, this is staff lodging, the guestrooms are upstairs,” the lady rasped back at me.
For some reason, I went down instead of up the first stairwell I found. At the bottom was a door that lead to the engine room.
Inside, the air was warm, the machinery deafening, and there was a massive network of pipes and duct work twisting all around. It was very inviting, so I started to walk across an elevated catwalk overlooking a thirty foot drop when some guy approached, scolded me for being in there, and escorted me back out the door.
I had a lot of patience when I was a kid, in fact I still do, but I became frustrated that I couldn’t find our room.
Young Grabowski and a swimming friend….
“Fuck this! I’m just going to get off this damn boat!” I told myself. “All I need to do is get to the deck and then I can jump off to freedom!”
I continued wandering the cruise ship, but this time with an agenda.
In another stairwell, I ran into an employee to whom I told that I wanted to get off the ship, and I asked him how to get to the deck. I guess I felt no reason to hide my goal.
Thankfully, he noticed that I wasn’t very coherent. He had me write my name and address down on a piece of paper. I recall thinking that he only wanted this info so he could call any buddies he might have in Chicago, and tip them off that my family was on vacation so they could rob our house.
He escorted me to the bridge where the captain was guiding the ship. On our way, we had to traverse the deck, and I felt a powerful urge to run to the rail and jump over.
The night sky was filled with the brightest stars I had ever seen. I stared deep into the universe, transcending both space and time, and I was able to see the intense but soft colors oozing from distant galaxies.
Once inside the bridge, I stood talking to the captain for a few minutes, just answering his questions. Then he picked up the phone and called my mom.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Grabowski?” This is the Captain of the ship. I have your son with me. He is trying to get off of the ship. But he cannot get off of the ship, for we are at sea!”
I was then escorted back to our room, which is when my mother grabbed my face and smelled my breath.
She called the cruise ship doctor and explained I was acting strange and that I wanted to jump off the ship.
“Is he wearing a Dramamine patch to prevent sea-sickness?” the doctor asked.
“Yes,” my mother responded. “In fact, we all are.”
The doctor advised that I should remove the patch and take a shower. Apparently, a lot of people have hallucinogenic reactions when using the Dramamine patch.
After a minute or two in the shower, I started screaming that there was a mouse in the tub. It had a skinny and a long and a nasty tail. My dad popped his head in like WTF!
What I’d been certain was a mouse, he assured me, was actually the drain plug with chain.
I got out of the shower, dried off and slipped into my PJs.
My whole family was wide-awake.
I was parched, so I grabbed an empty drinking glass and shuffled over to a table that had a small lamp on it. I picked up the lamp with my right hand, and attempted to pour the light beaming through the top of the shade into the glass in my left hand.
That’s right…I was thirsty for some light…it looked so refreshing!
Twenty-five years later, as I reflect on those few hours wandering the ship, I’m convinced that if that one guy hadn’t noticed I was acting strange, I most certainly would have found my way to the deck, jumped off the side and ended up floating face down in the Caribbean.
Too bad there is no way to track that guy down. I’d buy him a bottle of some fine scotch like Johnny Walker Blue.
Thanks, man, I owe you one!
I owe somebody a big one!
Editor’s Note: Grabowski’s last post for The Third City was Self- Intervention….
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Patrick Murfin: How I Became an All-Expense Paid Guest of Uncle Sam — The Waiting
In the last installment, Patrick got into a heap of trouble….
The months between my refusal of induction into the Army in early December and my March rendezvous with destiny at my Federal trial went by in kind of a blur. Actually, I spent a lot of time trying very, very hard not to think about it. You can imagine how well that went.
There were distractions. The festive holiday season, for instance. My folks had decamped Skokie for semi-retirement in beautiful Des Moines, Iowa where my Mom, in delicate physical and mental health, had family. I had told my father what was going on, but we agreed that Mom could not handle the stress of the news. He wished me well, but thought it advisable not to visit for the holiday lest something slip out.
My twin brother and his wife had gone to the west coast where they were doing the Lord’s work in a cult. That pretty much exhausted my family connections save scattered aunts, uncles and cousins.
So we spent Christmas with my girl friend Cecelia’s Jewish family in Elgin. They tried to make nice, but were obviously less than thrilled with their daughter’s choice of an exceptionally scruffy Goy with no good prospects.
I knew that she yearned for a nice warm, fleece lined coat fashionable that year. I couldn’t afford the real thing. But I did save up enough money to purchase, at what was probably my first ever visit to a suburban discount store, what I thought was an acceptable faux fleece coat. It set me back $25 or $30, a tidy sum for me in those days.
I proudly let her Mom peek at my gift after we arrived Christmas Eve day. Anyway, the next thing I know, they are taking her out to Joseph Spies, Elgin’s premier downtown department store. When they returned she had on a real thick coat, nice natural suede on the outside. That’s the kind of Christmas it was.
I looked almost as cool as Joe Namath in my new coat….
New Years Eve, of course, was one of the legendary Wobbly party Bacchanals featuring fifty or more folks jammed into an apartment, unlimited booze, and reefer to spare. There was, of course, singing. Much singing.
But cold gray January had to come. I went about my routine—the night shift at Schwinn, the Industrial Worker on weekends, drinking whenever possible. Towards the end of the month Cecelia suggested that I should begin to make preparations for my trial
So I called the good folks at the American Friend Service Committee who did counseling for Resistors. They wanted me to come in for a consultation, but I preferred talking on the phone. Over the course of several conversations, they uncovered what might be an actual defense to the charges—the glimmer of hope that I could have my cake and eat it too by being a heroic (in my eyes) figure while taking a walk on a technicality.
It turned out that the Draft Board had called me after my three-year “window of opportunity” for eligibility to be called up had expired. When I inquired of the Board how this could be, I was told that I had been “removed from the pool” pending investigation for dangerous un-American and subversive activity on account of my membership in the IWW, which was officially on the Attorney Generals List of bad organizations alongside various Communist, Nazi, and Ku Klux Klan outfits.
I needed a lawyer, but Johnny Cochran wasn’t available….
I had never been informed that my name had been suspended, and then re-instated with the time ticking again as of the suspension.
My counselor thought that I had a plausible ground to plead good faith in refusing induction because I wasn’t informed.
The next step was getting a lawyer. There was no way I could afford a private lawyer. I may have been doing better, but I was still basically living pay check to pay check, just a little more comfortably. The good Quakers recommended the lawyers at the People’s Law Office.
I knew them. Their office was on Halsted Street in spitting distance from the IWW Headquarters on Webster. Sometimes we would share a drink or two at Glascott’s Groggery. They were radicals, earnest and meant well. They started off defending the hundreds rounded up and arrested during the Democratic Convention in ’68. Do you know how many cases they got dismissed for lack of evidence or how many acquittals they won? Zero. Zip. Every single person arrested in conjunction with those demonstrations was convicted.
Now I knew that the fix was in. But a 100% loss rate did not give me confidence in Movement lawyers, no matter how well intentioned.
My final option was the Federal Public Defender Program. That’s where attorneys in private practice volunteered to represent indigent defendants. Like me. Assignment was at random from a pool of volunteers. I drew Jason Bellow, one of the top corporate lawyers in Chicago. A real legal heavy weight. Encouraged I set up an appointment to meet him about a week before the trial.
We met at the digs of his large law firm. Probably on LaSalle Street, but I don’t remember. I do remember the accommodations were plush and the view out of the window of his office was spectacular. Bellow’s was in his late 40’s or early 50’s. He was nattily dressed in a very expensive suit and sporting a red bow tie. He was the first man I ever met who obviously had a manicure. His handshake was warm and soft. He had a fringe of dark hair and spoke with a smooth, cultured tone.
Early in our interview I noted his resemblance to Chicago’s leading literary icon. He nonchalantly admitted to being Saul Bellow’s brother. I was impressed. He seemed interested in me and my situation. He listened intently, I thought, while I outlined the legal strategy recommended by the American Friends and gave him the telephone number of my councilor if he had any questions. We wrapped up the interview in about twenty minutes of his very valuable, billable time.
The next time we would see each other would be in court. But I was feeling pretty confident.
Editor’s Note: Patrick’s last post for The Third City took place at the induction center.
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Sol.: Cock Man
A few nights ago, I was sitting in the CT department shooting the shit with one of the CT techs, waiting for him to finish a scan on a patient I brought over.
There was about 20 minutes left to my 12-hour shift and I was tired, bored and ready to go home.
After a few minutes, Frank, another ER tech, came into the console room and sat down on a counter.
“Whatcha got, Frank?” the CT tech asked.
“Abdomen pelvis,” Frank replied.
He turned to me.
“What’s up, Sol.?” he said as he reached into a plastic bag. “Chocolate covered raisins?”
“No. I’m good, man. Thanks.”
“Alright,” he said has he popped a few in his mouth.
I was sitting in a chair with my legs crossed and looking at my socks, which had been bothering me all day. I usually wear ankle socks but hadn’t done laundry in a week so I was forced to put on long socks that went up half way between my ankle and my knee. It was driving me nuts all day.
“Hey, Frank, what do you think about these socks?” I asked as I pulled my scrub pant leg up. “I fucking hate them and they’re driving me nuts.”
“You know, I’m not going to lie — you look like a damned fool, Sol.”
“I know. I need to do laundry.”
“You should never wear those socks again.”
I wasn’t feeling my socks….
We went on about my hideous socks for a while, only stopping when the night CT tech, Marvin, came in.
Now Marvin is Haitian and has a heavy accent, but you can generally understand what he says. But from time to time we like to mess with him because his English and understanding of American slang isn’t that great.
He walked into the console room, threw his stuff on the counter next to Frank and leaned against the wall in a casual manner.
“Wasup, guys?”
“What’s up, Marvin?” Frank and I said at the same time.
“Noting much guys. Jus another day.”
“Yeah, man,” we mumbled.
“Oh, Frank, I show you a picture of my rooster,” he said as he reached for his phone.
“That’s your rooster?” Frank said as Marvin showed him a picture on his phone. “That’s cool.”
“Wait, you have a fucking rooster?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Frank said. “He fighting rooster.”
“Where the hell do you keep a rooster in this cold?” I said. “And it’s illegal to fight roosters.”
“Not here, man, in Kentucky,” Marvin said. “And it illegal to fight them, not to breed them. I jus breed them to sell.”
Marvin loved his cock….
Now I don’t know why this popped into my head, but I decided to have a little fun at Marvin’s expense.
“So you mean to tell me that you breed fighting cocks?” I asked, looking to bait him.
“Yes,” he replied.
“So you have a cocks?”
“Yes, I have cocks. I breed them.”
“How many cocks do you have?”
“A lot.”
“So you got a bunch of cocks down in Kentucky that you take care of?”
“Yes, man. I have cocks.”
By this time Frank sensed what I was doing and jumped in.
“So, how do you take care of your cocks?” Frank asked.
“I feed them, make sure they get exercise so they strong and let them play with each other,” he said. “I take care of my cocks.”
Both Frank and I could barely maintain our composure. Grins popped up on both our faces and more than once I had to turn away to keep from laughing.
“So, you’re a cock man?” I asked.
“I love cocks,” he replied. “Now I go work, guys. Talk to you later.”
As soon as he walked out of the room Frank and I busted out in laughter. Both of us were doubled over, laughing our asses off.
The other CT tech who had remained quiet during the exchange turned towards us and shook his head.
“You guys are a couple of fucking kids,” he said. “Leave that man and his Kentucky cocks alone.”
The three of us all broke out in a fresh round of laughter.
Editor’s Note: Sol.‘s last post for The Third City was I Hate Your Child….
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Guest Blogger:
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The Third City Makes a Correction. Written by Benny Jay. Read by Joel Reitsma, Andy Orscheln, Lorenzo Toia, No Blaise and Benny Jay. Produced by Joel Reitsma for King Conundrum Productions.
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